The Factory Worker and the Princess
by Jaythehobbit
Summary: In short: Rebellion never existed. 75th Games said that only the well-to-do were to be drawn from. Here we are at the 100th games. The quell is this: The capitol must offer up tributes as well this year. We follow the tale of Rhett Cimmaron, factory worker from District 3 as he is forced to fight for his life. Who is his princess? I suppose you will have to see. M for various stuff
1. Chapter 1

I take credit only for the character that I make up. I do not own The Hunger Games, nor the ideas behind them. Thank you for your consideration.

I suppose I should inform you that the rebellion in Mockingjay never existed in this world. The only events I am using from the wonderful Suzanne Collins are those of the original book in her series, which means that yes our star-crossed lovers are indeed star-crossed lovers who survived together. Endearing isn't it?  
_

My name is Rhett Cimmaron. I am a factory worker in District 3. District 3 is one of the 12 districts ruled by an advanced city known as The Capitol. The Capitol and the 12 districts reside within the nation of Panem. There were once 13 districts, but the districts rebelled, and as a result District 13, responsible for graphite mining, was utterly destroyed, and The Capitol began the annual Hunger Games. They take a boy and a girl from each district, ages 12-18, and have them fight to the death in an arena of The Capitol's creation. They pick these "Tributes" by placing all the children's names in a bowl on slips of paper, and drawing. If you are poor and starving, you may receive a tessera, which is a supposedly years-worth supply of grain and oil. You may take one tessera for each of your family members, but there is a catch. For each tessera, your name is entered into the ball more times. At the age of 17, my name is in there 38 times, for my family is not of the lucky intelligent inventors of District 3, rather we are the poor factory workers, and neither of my sisters are old enough to work, and my father is old and tired, and is unable to work the long hours necessary to support us. As a result, I take all the tessera I can, and work something like 84 hours a week. This is the day of my 5th reaping ceremony, and my little sister Cassia's 1st. She has taken no tessera, I would not allow her. I pray to whatever forces may be that we are allowed to return home on this, the reaping of the 100th Hunger Games. The odds are not in my favor.  
_

I tuck in my pristine white shirt. Pristine, and yet also a size or two too small to accomadate the growth Ive had over the last year since it was given to me on my 16th birthday. Clean clothes are hard to come by in the districts, perhaps even more so in a district filled with factories. The smell of industrial smoke and greases of all different kinds clung to the air in a sickening fashion. So much so that any time we receive a new escort they almost always wear somekind of face covering the first couple of years, and for those years all of us laugh at them. These fumes are part of the people of District 3, even the well-to-do families can taste it when they go to sleep at night. I check myself in the dirty, cracked mirror that has held residence in the corner of our living room in our small one bedroom falit for as long as I can remember. I look as well as I could expect, I think to myself. The shirt is too tight, the muscles of my shoulders and chest straining slightly against the fabric, making me look more impressive than I was. My pants, however, fit well, but were also frayed at the bottom and stained with those various greases than made up the scent of my home, and my shoes were dull and scuffed beyond belief. I run a finger through my short cut jet black hair, combing it to the right and up slightly, sothe the front stands in a sort of upward wave to the right. I notice that even at my age I have lines in my face. Laugh lines, indicating the fact that I do indeed love to laugh and enjoy myself, and then the lines between my eyebrows from hours of concentrating on my work at the factory, and years of being the main provider for my family. And then there's my eyes. Startlingly enough, they are not the typical muddy brown, nor the less common jet black of my district, rather my pupils are surrounded by an icey halo of blue. The color of a thick sheet of clear ice over a lake. They betray my brightness, despite my being a simple worker. And the bages underneath betray my workload, and my restelessness.  
"Rhett! Come on now boy, we've got to get you to registration. You've taken more time than your sister!" The gruff and tired voice of my father, Laicus Cimmaron, calls out to me from outside the door. I check myself one more time and then hurry outside. I take hold of little Cassia's hand, and my father takes the littlest Sarina. We walk together, as a family, yet seperate as those who were safe and those who were not. We do not speak as we make our way to the town center. Once we arrive Cassia and I are seperate from Father and Sarina, who are ushered to the cordonned off section for those not in the reaping. I give a few words of encouragement to Cassia as the prick her finger for registration, and then follow after her. We are then seperated as well, sent to stand with our age groups; I with the 17 year old boys, and she with the 12 year old girls. We stand and watch the stage with varying degrees of nervousness and fright. I have resigned myself, as I do every year, to the very real possibility of being reaped. It is the price of loving one's family. Our escort, Jacey Starbright, who has been our escort for 10 years now, appears on stage in a strange dress that has star designes cut out of the fabric at strategic places, while small blue-white lights are threaded through the rest of the dark blue dress. She faintly resembles the night sky, which is what she intended I am sure. Her hair is dyed a dark blue to match the fabric of the dress and dotted with pearls, and a string of star tattoo's trail across her cheekbones. She walks up to the microphone and begins to speak in her affected Capitol accent. She speaks about the atrocities of the revolution and why we must have the games, and what an honor it truly is to be picked as tribute, and all of those mind-numbing speaches that always accompany the reaping. We watch the video. Now it is time.  
"Ladies first, am I right?" She chuckles to herself, as if she had made a joke, and then strides over to the girl's selection pot. She reaches in, and takes out a slip of paper. My heart stops for an instant before she reads the name aloud, thinking of Cassia. "Gyra Macies!" She cries out in delight. I turn to see a girl that is somewhat familiar to me, though I can not remember why. She is strikingly beautiful, which is surprising as District 3 is not known for the beauty of it's women. She has the same black hair as I do, though it is thick and falls in waves to her shoulder blades. Her eyes are a gorgeous and entrancing shade of hazel, and her olive-toned skin seems to glow with perfection. I decide that I do not know her. If I do, then I would never have forgotten this girl. The 18 year old walks calmly and gracefully tto the stage, dressed in a simple blue cotton dress. She looks simple next to Jacey, and yet she is also apparently more appealing. My eyes are torn from Gyra as I notice Jacey headed to the boys selection. I watch as she dips into it and pulls a slip of paper. I close my eyes and take a deep breath as she reads the name. That breath feels as though it is knocked out of me as the name leaves her lips. "Rhett Cimmaron!" She calls. I hear the cry of both sisters, and I hear as Cassia attempts to volunteer, though she cannot. I walk, escorted by the white-clad peacekeepers, up to the stage, and realize that no matter how much I resign myself to this possibility, I was not prepared. We are instructed to shake hands, and so we do. We make eye contact, and something bizzare passes between us. And then we are escorted into the hall of justice, so that we may say our last goodbyes. Because let's face it. We're from District 3. We probably won't be returning to the square ever again. 


	2. Saying goodbye

**Once again, Hunger Games are NOT MINE. I wish, but they aren't. I own most of the characters used in this fic, except those created by Collins herself. Enjoy.**

Now comes the time for the good byes. I was not prepared from the wall of emotions and tears that rolled into the room when my family entered. My sisters were bawling and the both flung themselves at me, wrapping their arms around my waist. I pat their heads, holding back my own tears. I shush them gently, and then detatch them. I crouch down and take both of their hands. "Look. I'm gonna be fine. I promise. I'm gonna go in there, and win, and when I get back we will all live happily in anice house with plenty of food. We'll be happy. You'll see." I reassure them as convingly as I can. They nod their heads sullenly. I doubt they believe me. Hell, I don't believe me. I look up at the old man. He tells the girls to wait outside, and then looks at me. He extends a hand, which I take, and then draws me in for a suprisingly strong embrase, at which I am slightly taken aback. This is a rare thing for my father. I return the embrace, not wanting to miss this last oppurtunity. He speaks quietly into my ear.  
"You come back now boy. You prove them snooty bitches in the capitol wrong. You do what it takes, you kill everyone of those filthy careers by hand if need be, but you come back. You come back to me, come back to your sisters, and you bring with you a new life for all of us." We are both still for a second. He continues. "And you remember. When you're in some dark cave, or some hot desert, than you're loved, and you let it fuel you. I love you boy. Those girls love you. Soon enough, this district, and all of Panem will love you too. It's who you are." With the he steps back, and digs in his pocket. He hands me what looks like a pocket-knife, but upon closer inspection one finds the blade is missing. It's made of bronze, and beatifully engraved with images of romanticized factory work. A happy assembly line on one side, with the sun shining and the workers smiling, and on the other it shows what might be one of those same workers out on a picnic with his loved ones. He dances with a woman while a little boy seems to be playing knight with a stick. It is beatiful, and striking. The pictures are all in black outline with shading in strategic places. I look up at him and nod. And with that they are escorted out. I expect no one else, so when a middle-aged woman steps in the room I am surprised.  
"My name is Bella Macies. I only came to let you know that she remembers, even if you don't. And she loves you." She looks me in the eyes, as if waiting for a sign of recognition. I do not know what she means now, but I nod my thanks for the message. She places a hand on my shoulder briefly and gives a gentle squeeze, and then walks out of the room. I sit for a while, confused and absorbed in my thought when the peacekeepers come to escort me to the car which takes us to the train. I ignore the crowd as we reach the train, and with one last look behind me at my home, I enter first.

I am followed by the ever energetic and yet somewhat subdued Jacey Starbright. Perhaps the fumes suck the energy out of would make sense, like how I hear that some plants excrete a scent that can weaken even a large man, and put a smaller person to sleep, and even kill small creatures. She is followed by the short, somewhat elderly man who is to be our mentor as the sole surviving victor of our district. His name is Beetee, and he is one of the brilliant inventor types among District 3's population. I remember hearing my father talk about how he won his games by setting a trap and electricuting 6 people. He may very well have a game plan that will help us succeed. Then she enters, and it is as if the whole train has taken a breath at the sight of her, though it is really just me. Jacey, obviously exhausted, explains to us that our trip will be short, but luxurious. We should enjoy it while we can. With that, she goes in search of a bed to sleep off District 3. Beetee waves us off, saying that we will speak more once we get to the capital, and only tells us that just looking at us he has a feeling that one of us could easily be a victor, and then he himself wanders off. Which leaves just the two of us. I look at Gyra and nod.  
"Uhm. Hi. My name is Rhett... But then again, you probably heard that... So... What did you do?" I ask to which she just half grins. I gulp. I'm floundering, and she is amused by it. "This sucks right? I mean... Hunger Games being how we meet and all..." I sigh in frustration as she remains silent. "Ok, so I feel like I know you, but I don't know how..." She interrupts me with a gentle finger pressed to my lips. I blink several times, and then look at her, hopefully I look as confused as I am.  
"You do know me." She answers. "You may not remember, but I definitely do. I have watched you ever since we met." She says. The train starts to move now, and the woman who came to say goodbye to me returns to me. 'You may not remember, but she does.' I remember. And as if she can hear my thoughts, Gyra begins speaking again, finishing my though. "And I have loved you ever since." She says, and then places her arms around my neck and kisses me.

**AUTHORS NOTE!:  
So, this is my first fanfiction of any sort, and I realize I should have put this in the first chapter, but I desperately hope that since I didn't I retained some of you till this point. I'm new and I need all the reviews I can get. Feel free to communicate ideas and criticisms galore if need be. By the way, the first chapter had some shitty formatting, and that's my fault. I promise that is not how I intended it to look, and I hope this chapter comes out a bit better. Thank you for your consideration.**


	3. Light at the end of the tunnel

I instinctively reach up and place my hands on her upper arms, which my fingers easily encircle completely, and push her back to arms length and look at her quizzically. I frown, concentrating hard so that I keep my mind off of the warmth that her soft lips sent through me. "Uhm. So... What the fuck?" I ask, words not exactly being my strong suit at the moment. It seemed like the best way to word what was twirling and twisting inside of my head.

She sighs, almost as if disappointed, and shakes her head slowly. "You really don't remember me... I can't believe it... I thought... Surely you would at least recognize..." She stops talking and brushes my hands off of her, and crosses her arms protectively over her chest. "It was 3 years ago... sometime during the summer. I was walking home one night from my friend Macina's flat in the worker's district, so I was in a somewhat shady part of the district. I got caught by these two thugs as I cut through an alleyway, and I thought I was doomed. I was the daughter of a fctory overseer. I was well off and dressed in pretty clothes. I was a target. And so they took my bag, and my coat, and then they decided they wanted more. They shoved me against a wall, and were about to have what they wanted when a kid, already somewhat built like a worker, walked by and took notice. He shouted out the most ridiculous thing..."

"You let go of her in the name of District 3, or face Rhett Cimmaron's justice." I whisper. I had listened to her story up to this point, silently engrossed in the picture she painted with her words, until I realized I had seen this picture before. Not only seen it, but I was a part of it. I was that worker built kid who happened to walk by at just the right time before the thugs who belonged to the Rust Crew, a local gang, had done as they pleased with the pretty young girl. "And then I fought them. I didn't win. I didn't lose either. They wound up running, but I like to think I took the worst of it. I was worried about you though, because they had definitely broken your arm. So I picked you, despite my body's protests, and asked you where home was. And I carried you the last couple of blocks to your home on the edge of The Townhome section."

She turns back to look at me, a mixture of relief and sadness evident in those golden eyes, strange coupling of emotions that pull me towards her, and opens my arms to her. An embrace which she gladly accepts. She finishes the story quietly. "Just before you rang the doorbell and left I insisted I reward you. You laughed at me, and reminded me that I had no money. I said, 'I don't need money.' and I kissed you. I don't remember how long we kissed, but it seemed like ages, and yet was far too short at the same time. You brushed the hair from my face, rang the doorbell, and left. But I never forgot your name, Rhett Cimmaron. Never." And before I truly understand what is happening, there is more kissing. This time I did not hesitate. I return the kiss, perhaps with less vulnerability, and ceratinly lacking the passion, but I return it with something. Her arms drape around my neck and mine wrap around her slender waist as we pull closer to each other.

We pull apart, the necessity for air forcing our break, and I rest my forehead on hers. We stay like this for a few minutes before I recognize the feeling of being watched. I release her and step back, and find Beetee standing in the doorway with what looks like a face filled with concer, which soon changes to a face of thought. "Uhm. I... We... Sorry... Are we in trouble? Is there a rule against tributes being romantic with one another?" I ask quickly, hoping that I haven't broken some sort of rule and was now to be shot at the next stop. Beetee taps one finger against the tip of his nose and smiles at us.

"Oh no my dear boy. In fact I do believe you have given me the best equipment I could have asked for to get one, if not potentially - POTENTIALLY, both of you." He states, making sure to stress that it was only potential. Gyra and I exchange quick, confused glances before she speaks up.

"What do you mean? What is your plan Be... Sir?" She asks. He chuckles to himself as he examines us as he would a machine he were about to test.

"How well, my children, do you believe you can act?" I tilt my head to the side, confused by the question. What the hell does acting have to do with anything? The confusion must register on both of our faces because before either of us can ask anything he quickly bridges the gap between us, suprisingly quick for an old man I might add, and takes one of my hands and puts it gently into Gyra's and pressing it around hers, forcing us to hold hands. He shakes his head and after a few utterances of telling us to be still, and some peculiar positioning, I am turned in a diagonal fashion to my right looking forward at Beetee while my arms are encircling Gyra who has her arms around my waist and is leaning into me, her head on my chest, also looking towards our mentor. He claps excitedly as he finally sees what it is he was wanting. He opens his mouth to say something when suddenly the train jerks to a stop. A voice comes over a speaker telling us that there was a minor problem, and we would be delayed an hour or so. Beetee looks around, and then seperates us and tells us to follow him. We look at each other, still terribly confused. I shrug, take Gyra by the hand, and follow Beetee.

The room Beetee leads us to is supposedly his quarters, but it seems as if in the short team he had been here he had already strewn wires and bolts and various things about the floor, making it treacherous walk to sit on his bed while he picked his way to a chair against the wall in front of us. He sits back for a second, elbows on the armrests and his hands meeting only at the fingertips right in front of his face, thinking some more. I make the note that our mentor seems to enjoy taking his time thinking, and as I make that note he begins to speak.

"I believe," he begins in his permanently inquisitive voice, "we have our sponsor strategy, and by that I mean our metho of getting you two sponsors, and it is rather simply not all that complicated if you listen. I believe that if you two act as though you are in love, you can tug on the heartstrings of the capitol as lovers who are doomed to never be happy together as you are condemned to the games, much as a couple of children from district 12 did nearly 24 years ago." I faintly remembering hearing about that. Something about some poison berries and both tributes surviving. I nod to myself. "Now then, that being said you will have to be utterly convincing because if the sponsors manage to see through it all... Well then you will have no sponsors, and will likely not survive the first couple of days. Unless of course you have an incredible prowess with weaponry that I was unaware that our district breeded in its young people? No? I did not think so." He sits back nodding, and then looks at us both in turn, as if expecting something.

"So... What if we actually fall in love? What if we are in love? Are you saying we can both win?" I hear Gyra ask, the seed of hope obvious and saddening. The doubt I feel inside is amplified by the brief look of pain that crosses Beetee's face. H dabs at one eye before simply shaking his head.

"No. No I highly doubt that. I believe having two winners was a one time thing..." And just like that Beetee is off thinking again. With a series of low mumblings and slight clicking sounds he shoos us out of the room and closes the door behind us. I look at the door and back to Gyra, and shrug. We walk around until we find an empty bedroom. Gyra walks in and lays on the bed, and then looks at me and pats the bed next to her. I look around the corridor before deciding there is noone around, and walk over, kick off my shoes, and lie in the bed next to her, placing one arm around her as she settles her head onto my chest.

"You know Ive always dreamed about this... I just... I just never thought it would have to be like this." She whispers, as if fraid talking to loudly would ruin the moment. Would shatter some fragile barrier between this wierd twilight zone we were in where one of us, and if you were crazy maybe even both of us, could very well win this thing. The realm between waking and dreaming where we had finally found each other in the way that she craved, and I was surprisingly estatic to discover. The place where we had a warm bed and food at our disposal. And so she whispered. And I said nothing. I can't tell you how long we lay awake like that. All I know is that she had fallen asleep by the time the train had jerked back into motion, and I has followed soon after the captain announced we were back on track. For the one-way rail to death, the ride was actually fairly pleasant.

**AUTHORS NOTE: Alright, so I will admit that I am starving for reviews and criticism. I need them. I put more thought into this chapter and its format, trying to make it somewhat easier on the eye. Please feel free to review, and criticize to your hearts content. As always, Thank you for your consideration.**


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